


Cracked

by mugsandpugs



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23903272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: Head injuries are a real bitch.Incomplete and discontinued.
Relationships: Lance Alvers/Scott Summers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	1. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amnesia fic? Amnesia fic.
> 
> Guess that's another one to scratch off the fandom bingo card.

Topping the list of Unnerving Things Scott has Heard Logan Say _had_ to be "I smell blood." That never boded well.  
  
Scott straightened, popping his aching back, and looked over the green expanse of Xavier's property. From where the two men stood on the roof, repairing damaged shingles, he could see for miles in all directions.  
  
"Can you tell who it is?" Scott asked. Logan's nose was still twitching. If one of the kids managed to give themself a papercut, they'd just have to take care of it alone. He saw a handful of them playing soccer in the field... They wouldn't still be playing if there was danger... Right?  
  
Logan seemed to have a different opinion. "Trouble," was all the explanation he gave, before dropping gracelessly off the roof. He gave himself a minute for his undoubtedly broken legs to heal, then set off at a stilted run towards the front gate.  
  
Scott pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. Logan had _promised_ Hank he'd stop injuring himself in the name of shortcuts. Something about pulling a hot pan out of the oven without any mitts to protect his hands had really rubbed the blue-furred mutant the wrong way. At the very least, he should stop ruining his clothes with rips and bloodstains.  
  
Putting his tools away in their correct places, Scott slung the toolbag over his shoulder and started down the ladder, like a sane person. By the time he reached the gate, Logan was already opening it to let a familiar filthy Jeep Wrangler through.  
  
The source of the blood Logan could smell on the wind was immediately apparent. The Blob was driving the Jeep, while the passenger seat sat empty. In the back, Toad was struggling to keep a glassy-eyed Avalanche conscious. His face and shirt, as well as Toad's webbed hands, were saturated in uneven patches of sticky, drying red.  
  
Scott felt his knees wobble. When he was a kid, there were often moments where he felt as though he were viewing events from somewhere outside of his own body. Like he was a spirit hovering some three feet to the right, untouched by the goings-on.

The same feelings overtook him now, leaving him helpless to do anything but stare as Logan went around to lift Lance out of the backseat.  
  
Logan laid the teen flat on the ground, arms crossed across his chest. Fresh blood began to pool on the concrete around Lance's head; a black stain seen through Scott's red goggles.

Scott had never seen what happened to his parents' bodies in the aftermath of the plane crash that took their lives, but an overactive imagination had fueled his subconscious. In his dreams, they'd often looked very like this: whole, save for blood. Always, always the blood.  
  
It took him far too long to realize that Lance was awake. Groaning. Trying to speak. While Logan and Toad's voices echoed strangely behind him, Scott knelt beside the Avalanche, turning his head to hear him better. He smelled like pennies and stomach acid.

"Hurts," Lance muttered, his sour breath heating Scott's cheek. "Fuckin' hurts..."

Scott himself was still floating that useless three feet to the right, but his body remembered what to do in case of emergency. Shielding Lance's face from the sun, he peered into his pupils, which were enormous black holes surrounded by the thinnest ring of brown. The left one was somewhat larger than the right. Scott thought he'd never seen the Avalanche's olive-toned skin so sallow.

"A head injury?"

Lance neither confirmed nor denied Scott's guess. He tried to cover his ears. "When will they stop ringing? Why won't my arms work right?!"

Definitely a head injury.  
  
"-- Cracked like a fuckin' egg, yo," Toad was telling Logan. "Some Humpty Dumpty shit goin' down... Bleedin' all over the place..."  
  
"Where were you hit?" Scott asked, looking over Lance, gently moving his hair aside to find the source of the blood.  
  
"I don't know, man; who even _are_ you?! Where the fuck am I?"

Scott stilled, startled by the strange questions. Before he could fully process what had been asked, however, he felt a steadying presence in his head.

As though with hands and rope, Professor X pushed Scott's consciousness firmly back into his body. He was no longer three feet to the right, but exactly where he belonged: kneeling in a puddle of blood with both hands on his rival's pallid face.

From behind him, Charles Xavier spoke: "I think were going to need a stretcher."


	2. Sutures

The worst of it took up the back of Alvers's head. Whatever had happened to him -- and the Brotherhood weren't giving clear answers -- involved a direct knock to the occipital bone.

"You're lucky you're not blind," Charles groused. "Or paralyzed." He didn't add that the Brotherhood could easily have worsened his condition just by moving his body, his neck. He didn't have to: they were all thinking it.  
  
"Is that what happened to you?" Alvers asked. They'd laid him facedown on a massage table, so that he could still breathe in the ring-shaped pillow while his numb scalp was doctored. They'd taken his blood-soaked shirt to the laundry, leaving Scott to study a surprising number of long scars on his bare back. Though all quite old, some looked severe, like he'd been smashed to pieces and stuck clumsily back together.

Scott stiffened, glaring. Such a rude question...

Charles didn't seem offended. He merely continued to clean and trim the hair on the back of Alvers's head, in preparation for the clippers. Whatever had hit his head had also split skin. He would need sutures.

"My paralysis is indeed the result of an injury," the professor confirmed. "Though not a _head_ injury. But that's a story for another day." He cleaned his little silver scissors with a cloth, then set both aside. "Clippers, Mr. Summers?"

Scott passed the tool over, and Xavier adjusted the settings. They'd need bare skin if they wanted to stitch Lance's head back together.

"Careful with those," the morose patient huffed. "I don't wanna look like you... Do you know how long it took to grow my hair like this?!"

"Do _you_ know?" Charles countered.

Lance went quiet. It was a petulant sort of silence. He'd been in their mansion for less than two hours-- just long enough to take an MRI of his cracked skull-- but none of his short term memories had returned. It had taken considerable, annoying strife just to convince him he no longer lived in Chicago. That he'd been in Bayville, New York, for nearly a year.

It was weird to see Lance with a bald patch growing on the back of his head, like he was an old man in an eighteen-year-old's body. Of course, it was only one layer. Lance had very thick hair, and most of it was clipped to the top of his head. After they brushed it out, it'd be hard to see the spot.

"You're going to have one sore neck tomorrow," Charles warned. "Very stiff."

"Yeah, cuz I'm feeling just awesome today."

Charles gave his shoulder a pat, unfazed by the sarcasm. "I'm glad to see you're just as contrary as ever, even if you have no idea who I am."

Scott couldn't hold back a snort of disdain. Lance would stop being a punk only in death. Short-term amnesia had nothing on core nature.  
  
Emerging from the closet-sized office where he'd been pouring over the MRI results, Hank addressed Charles: "There's considerable swelling and deep-tissue bruising, but I haven't seen any hemorrhages. The bone is only fractured; not broken."  
  
"Thank heavens for small mercies."  
  
Lance peeked up from his ring-shaped pillow, studying Hank with a frown. He'd been very startled to see such a visibly mutated person, having apparently forgotten what Hank looked like. When Hank glanced over at him, Lance ducked his head again. The open flaps of skin on the back of his now-bald head glistened in the overhead light, turning Scott's stomach.  
  
He stood, making for the door. Now that Hank was in the room, he was no longer needed as assistant. He felt a twinge of guilt at the cowardly action-- as a combat-trained leader, he should be used to a little blood and gore. But it still made him queasy when it happened to people he knew.  
  
Charles gave him a little mental nudge as he left; the equivalent of a hand on a shoulder. Forgiving him for this little weakness. Scott nudged back, and shut the door carefully behind himself before they could start stitching Humpty Dumpty together again.  
  
Thinking he should still behave like a leader, he walked with purpose upstairs and across a hallway, to a small conference room where two fourths of the Brotherhood waited with lemonade and cookies. Toad and Blob looked up expectantly when Scott let himself in.  
  
"Is Lanceman okay?" Toad asked, crouching atop the polished oak table. Scott had never before seen him so anxious for someone else's sake-- he'd always struck Scott as a self-serving individual; someone who'd always flee to save his own skin.  
  
"He's going to be alright." Scott sat down, waving away the plate of cookies when Blob nudged it towards him. He still had Alvers's blood on his clothes, and the smell was starting to make him nauseous. "His skull is cracked, and his brain is bruised. He has a moderate concussion, and can't remember anything more recent than last summer, but he's forming new memories. Hopefully, he'll improve as he heals."  
  
Todd and Fred listened to him, as though studying his words for an upcoming test. They'd never given him such attention before... They must really have been worried about their leader.  
  
"Can we take him home?" Fred asked.  
  
"That's not a good idea. He'll need to stay with us overnight, so Hank can be nearby if there's an emergency."  
  
The two exchanged a look, downcast.  
  
"You can stay here, too," Scott amended, feeling bad for them. "We have plenty of rooms."  
  
Fred looked like he was about to agree, but Todd shook his head. "Trobro would be mad."  
  
Excellent-- a perfect segway for Scott's next question. "Where _is_ Pietro?"  
  
Again, the boys exchanged an uncertain look. "He's... Busy."  
  
Scott raised an eyebrow, channeling his inner Professor X. He waited silently, staring at them both until Fred broke. "He told us not to tell you."  
  
"Was he with Alvers when he was injured?"  
  
"Maybe..."  
  
"And he doesn't want Charles to see it in his mind. Alvers was doing something stupid; something he doesn't want Charles to know about, and he got hurt, and--"  
  
"We ain't saying nothing," Todd burst in, glaring Scott down. "Just fix our boy an' give 'im back, yo."  
  
Scott sighed, sitting back in his chair. "You know we'll find out sooner or later."  
  
But it seemed the boys had said all they were going to say. After several long minutes of silence, Scott got back up and left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place the summer after Lance and Scott graduated high school. Yes, I'm being a little loosey-goosey with timelines here. I'm a writer, not a mathematician.


End file.
